In the quiet
by jackdawsinflight
Summary: Just a place for some Lewis drabbles, vignettes and one-shots I'm trying. Bit new to this (and fairly rubbish), so bear with me. Ch3 is based on a scene from Series 8 Entry Wounds (Part 1)... so avoid if you've not seen it yet.
1. Something broken

It's funny, loving something that's broken. One day you hope it might be fixed, but in the meantime, you carry on tending the shattered frame. For that's what you've been left. Not out of your choice or even any sense of duty, but out of a combination of happenstance and your unwillingness to walk away. You tenderly care for the broken pieces, nursing them, willing them to repair themselves. But you have to acknowledge that your efforts might, ultimately, prove futile. Fruitless. And you might still be left achingly alone. Yet... you love the thing that's broken and somehow you can't turn your back. So, for now, you'll just have to sit. And wait.


	2. Grief

**Author's note:** Just so you know, this isn't him talking to anyone in particular. Especially not to someone he knows. It's meant more as an exploration of what he'd say if he was being completely honest about it. Without sugar-coating it in a way he might if discussing it with a friend.

* * *

Let me tell you something. Something about grief. Now, I'm not really a man for metaphors. Nor will I be referring to a poem or a book. Because no amount of literary mumbo jumbo is going to help you when grief comes for you. Believe me. No matter if you're Shakespeare or Einstein: every bugger's just the same when he's faced with loss. Words, _especially_ fancy ones, won't matter. When your heart's caving inwards and the sadness is so bad you can't breathe, you're utterly helpless. Helpless like the day you were born.

You need to be ready. But that's easier said than done. For it comes at you stealthily in the dark of an evening, or in through the letterbox with your post. It comes with music, with laughter, or even when you're just minding your own business, watching the telly. Always this same painful nagging about someone who left you too soon. Sometimes it stabs at you, or washes in like a tide. Often, and worst of all, it surprises you, like a clap of thunder or a fart in a quiet room. But, instead of laughing, you want to weep uncontrollably. Weep like a lass.

Of course, I see grief most days in my line of work, but it's not a burden I like to share. I just don't think it helps. In fact, I try to avoid the clinging grief of others: its hands, like a beggar's on your arm. Except, of course, that grief pulls on your heart, dragging it down. Down to... well... a despair like you've never known. No, no. I'm not into sharing this particular burden: you carry yours and I'll carry mine.

Eventually the _fact_ of your grief becomes familiar: like a touchstone for all you say and do. But I wouldn't say the same for the _force_ of it: you may never get used to that. Sometimes it's so powerful, you think you'll turn round and see it. Yes, I can best describe my grief as a physical presence. Often I'm so maddened by it, I talk to it, like it's standing beside me in the room. Just like I talk to my dead wife.

So, you see, in my life there are three of us... but I'm the only one who's really here. Fumbling on with existence, counting the minutes between those moments when I almost forget. I don't want your sympathy. Or even your understanding. I just ask that you leave me to it. Because it's the only way I know to go on.


	3. A complaint about service

**A/N:** Just a completely superfluous one-shot filler following Laura's little flash of Italian (Series 8 Entry Wounds - Spoiler). Bear in mind we Brits only saw the first half of the episode, so sorry if it doesn't fit with what comes later.

* * *

"You wish to complain about my level of service?" Robbie protested with mock indignation.

Laura raised her glass defiantly and he watched her slink away, barefoot, into the kitchen. She smiled, sultrily, back over her shoulder.

He followed her.

She deposited her iPad on the table and bent to take a tin-foiled and delicious-smelling casserole dish from the oven.

"So you didn't put my dinner in the canoe after all?" He smirked, pouring himself a glass of wine to accompany hers.

She banged the dish loudly down on the wooden trivet that she'd placed on the counter and looked at him through narrowed eyes, "It wouldn't have been anything less than you deserved, Robert Lewis."

He laughed and went over to her, taking the oven gloves from her hands, depositing her glass of wine on the counter and sliding his arms around her waist. She looked up at him, hesitating. It had been a while since she'd seen him in a suit and the effect was far from disagreeable. The clean lines of shirt and tie suited him, combining pleasantly with the remnants of his aftershave. The smell brought back countless memories of their past together, as did the thick fabric of his suit as her hands pressed lightly against his chest.

"I'm sorry. I tried to ring you." He spoke quietly, in the intimate tone to which she'd grown accustomed since they moved in together.

"But I was welly-deep in a ditch with a well-dressed corpse?"

"Precisely."

"Still, you could have text me."

He cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrows.

"We've been through this, Robbie." She chided, gently.

"I know. Text is a 'useful, non-invasive and instantaneous form of communication'." He parroted, but not without rolling his eyes.

She couldn't help but laugh. Finally relenting, she let him draw her in towards him. She snuck her hands under his jacket, just as she used to in those fledgling days of their relationship, and rested her head against his chest. He completed the little jigsaw of domestic bliss by tucking her head beneath his chin and rocking them ever so slightly.

"How was your day?" She murmured into his chest.

"Strange." He kissed her hairline.

"Good strange?"

"Hmm. I'm not sure Hathaway was all that pleased to see me."

Laura laughed. "Do you blame him?"

"Well, no. But Innocent lured me there under false pretenses. She implied he'd asked for me."

"And he hadn't?"

"Apparently, not."

"Oh." She withdrew slightly and looked up at him, eyes dancing. "That's unfortunate."

"Oi, you." He poked her gently in the ribs, detecting her sarcasm. "You're meant to be on my side now, remember?"

She yelped and he bundled her tighter towards him, before continuing. "Innocent's short-staffed and she's offered me a one year, fixed contract – with flexible hours."

"Uh huh…" Laura spoke non-committedly to his jacket lapels.

"You don't sound impressed."

"It's your choice, Robbie."

"No, it's not." He gripped her gently by the upper arms, pushing her away from him and looking straight at her. "It's your choice too, now."

She looked up at him with her trademark wry smile, eyes wide. "Robbie…" her voice was laced with weary, but age-old affection. "I just want you to be happy."

He lifted her chin with his forefinger and looked at her intently – a rare expression in their usually jovial interaction. "I _am_ happy." He smiled. "Happier than I have been in a very long time. And you know that."

"Well, that's OK, then." She murmured as his nose nuzzled hers upwards, revealing her lips for his to touch. "Mmm."

He kissed her for just long enough to make her heart start to quicken and then leant his forehead gently against hers. She smiled, breathily, wriggling further into his embrace and silently reveling in the fact he still made her feel this way after all this time.

"But no guns, knives or car-chases?" Her voice had a soft, unguarded tone which Robbie heard only at times like this.

He chuckled, nuzzling her ear. "Sometimes I worry about your perception of the police force, Dr Hobson." He kissed her earlobe, his voice dipping low, as he pressed further kisses into the hollow of her neck. "It'll all just be paperwork, love.. you'll see."

As a spray of goosebumps, caused by his attentions, skittered down her spine, she leant forwards on tiptoe and slid her arms up around his neck.

"Your dinner's getting cold."

"Never mind."


End file.
